Walcheren Expedition

Ye brave, enduring Englishmen,

    Who dash through fire and flood,

And spend with equal thoughtlessness

    Your money and your blood,

I sing of that black season,

    Which all true hearts deplore,

        When ye lay,

        Night and day,

Upon Walcheren's swampy shore.

'Twas in the summer's sunshine

    Your mighty host set sail,

With valour in each longing heart

    And vigour in the gale;

The Frenchman dropp'd his laughter,

    The Fleming's thoughts grew sore,

        As ye came

        In your fame

To the dark and swampy shore.

But foul delays encompass'd ye

    More dang'rous than the foe,

As Antwerp's town and its guarded fleet

    Too well for Britons know;

One spot alone ye conquer'd

    With hosts unknown of yore;

        And your might

        Day and night,

Lay still on the swampy shore.

In vain your dauntless mariners

    Mourn'd ev'ry moment lost,

In vain your soldiers threw their eyes

    In flame to the hostile coast;

The fire of gallant aspects

    Was doom'd to be no more,

        And your fame

        Sunk with shame

In the dark and the swampy shore.

Ye died not in the triumphing

    Of the battle-shaken flood,

Ye died not on the charging field

    In the mingle of brave blood;

But 'twas in wasting fevers

    Full three months and more,

        Britons born,

        Pierc'd with scorn,

Lay at rot on the swampy shore.

No ship came o'er to bring relief,

    No orders came to save;

But DEATH stood there and never stirr'd,

    Still counting for the grave.

They lay down, and they linger'd,

    And died with feelings sore,

        And the waves

        Pierc'd their graves

Thro' the dark and the swampy shore.

Oh England! Oh my Countrymen!

    Ye ne'er shall thrive again,

Till freed from Councils obstinate

    Of mercenary men.

So toll for the six thousand

    Whose miseries are o'er,

        Where the deep,

        To their sleep,

Bemoans on the swampy shore.